Requiem for Sweetie Belle
by Wespe
Summary: After Sweetie Belle's death, Rarity comes to terms as she thinks about what could have have been.


_We shall meet, but we shall miss him._  
_There will be one vacant chair._  
_We shall linger to caress him,_  
_When we breath our evening prayer._

_- _H.S. Washburn, _The Vacant Chair_

* * *

She was gone. This is what the fashionista thought as she emerged from her bedroom in the second story of her boutique-home on that particular Sunday morning. She paused at the window on the way down the stairs to look out the window. Outside, dark masses of gray clouds hung low over the city as the sun began to rise in the distance, and a dense fog lay over the ground. It was going to be a dreary day. She frowned at the sight as she descended the stairs.

Even though it was dark, she didn't bother with the lights as she entered the kitchen. She had hardly slept at all last night, and when she awoken, her eyes were swollen with a dull pain. No, light would only compound the problem, so she kept them off. It did not help, either, that the few times she had been able to sleep that night she had been plagued with lucid dreams that gave her no respite or relief. Dreams filled with restless visions – waking memories manifesting themselves from the recesses of her mind in her subconscious, and only served to exacerbate her already weary thoughts.

She heaved a low sigh as she poured herself a freshly brewed cup of coffee from the machine and sat down at the table near the back of the dining room. She took a few sips of the warm liquid and then lazily let her head rest on the bare surface; casually beginning to ponder as she stared into the abyss of the fading gloom of the dawn.

What did it mean? What was the purpose of it all? Why was it her? These questions she had asked since she received the dreadful news two weeks earlier. It was a sunny day when she had answered the phone ringing in her main foyer. She had just finished stitching together her latest creation –a dress which she intended to give to her sister for her to wear to her upcoming birthday party. As she finished the last details, she imagined a jubilant and grateful Sweetie proudly wearing it as she gathered around a colossal cake with her friends to celebrate. In one instant, though, everything came crashing down around her as she held the phone up to her ear and heard her parents tell her what she thought impossible become suddenly real: Sweetie Belle was dead.

She did not linger much on the cause, nor did she care much to remember how. She vaguely recalled her mother relating to her of how Sweetie had ventured out with her friends into the Everfree and had apparently taken a step too far on a cliff and had fell into the river below. The doctors, she went on, did not know if the fall had killed or if she had drowned. This was unimportant to Rarity. What good would it do for her to think on it? It did not change the ultimate end of the situation, which was that she was dead – and nothing could be done about it.

She nestled her head in her arms for a bit on the table as she reflected over what had happened. After a while, a thought occurred to her, and she looked up to see the daily calendar on the wall. In the darkness, it could be read plainly. On the small piece of square paper was printed in bright-red letters: JUNE 26. Today was her birthday. This would have been her special day.

The dress she had made for that occasion was still hanging in the entrance of the boutique where she had left it. It was tied in red ribbon in a bow like a birthday gift, waiting to be unwrapped. At first, Rarity had thought about taking it down, but she felt its place was appropriate enough – at least until the funeral was done. And yet, it was still there, though the funeral had come and gone long ago. In truth, Rarity could not bring herself to touch it, much less take it down. How could she? It was the last thing she had left to remind her of what could have been. A dress that should have celebrated her sister's birth, now only marred the memory of her passing.

She cared for her sister, though, as she admitted to herself, she didn't always show it. Many times she could recall when she caught her doing something mischievous – playing with something she really shouldn't have or commencing in some other activity that put her in imminent danger – and would then give her a stern lecture. She was a strict, but she was fair; though, most of the time, she regretted it having to discipline her at all. The sight of her sister distressed was always enough to soften her spite.

Though they may have had their confrontations before, she made it a strict policy never to yell. She knew that yelling at a child didn't work, although there were a few occasions where she felt like it – either out of anger or frustration. Looking back though, the few times she did feel like yelling seemed trivial and inconsequential, and in light of recent events, even more insignificant compared to monumental burden of losing her altogether.

And it was a burden. After the news, her parents were beside themselves in grief. When she had gone to console them, her mother was so grief-stricken, she could not bring herself to come out of her room. She was received solely by her father, who despite his best efforts, could not help but remain silent through the entirety of her brief stay. She couldn't blame them for their condition. They were in their twilight years of their lives, and the youthful light which they had raised and cared for had just been extinguished. Rarity admitted to herself, had she been in such a situation, she would have acted similarly.

Her own grief was one she had kept concealed. While her feelings could be described as nothing less than devastated, she resolved to be strong. She had to be – for her parent's sake. At Sweetie's funeral, some days after the phone call, she didn't even shed a single tear as the small cypress casket was laid into its place beneath a shady spot in the cemetery, and the roses and lilies were thrown atop of it. She could only stare and frown as she thought what a stinging injustice the choice of flowers had been. Sweetie never cared for roses, or lilies for that matter– she had always preferred the humble and unimposing blue of the forget-me-not.

Everyone Rarity knew was there, and perhaps not surprisingly, even Sweetie's friends also showed up that day to pay their final respects. Apple Bloom had naturally tagged along with her sister, and Scootaloo had come with Rainbow Dash. It was odd thing, watching them, for she could see that they were the most distraught looking out of everyone who had attended. Their eyes were filled with gloom as they watched the ceremony; and on more than one occasion, she noticed both break down. The reason, as both Apple Bloom and Scootaloo later had confided when they had come to visit her, was that they had felt the most responsibility in the incident.

"It's our fault!" they both cried in unison.

"Whatever do you mean, darlings?"

"It was me! I'm the one to blame!" Scootaloo shouted.

"No! It was me!" Apple Bloom squealed.

Their "confessions" she took as a sign of grief. It was natural after all to feel a personal responsibility over something like a death at such an age. She did her best to reassure them that such was not the case as she cradled the young fillies' heads in her arms.

"Shush now," she murmured as they wept. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes...it...was,"they both choked through sobs.

"We knew we weren't supposed to be there." Scootaloo said.

"She didn't want to go, but we got her to go anyways." Apple Bloom continued

"We're murderers!" they both exclaimed.

Rarity continued to hold them as they bawled into her shoulder. She could only feel sympathy for the two of them. They had lost a good friend, someone they both cared about deeply, probably even more than Rarity knew. They had been comrades – Cutie Mark Crusaders –and now their alliance had been broken; but it was much more than a friend they had lost – it was if they had lost a piece of themselves.

"Girls, I understand what you're going through. I know it must be the worst feeling imaginable – but you can't blame yourselves. It was an accident. There's nothing that could have been done about it."

The two fillies cried some more, which was expected, but they started to come around. She later took them both to Sugarcube Corner where she treated them both to their favorite pastries. It succeeded in brightening their spirits, though they still remained rather melancholy for a few weeks. Rarity knew though, that time would heal all things, even the grief they felt for their fallen friend – for that too would pass.

And yet, she could not reconcile herself with what had happened either. There was something that lingered in her soul, tugging at her heartstrings relentlessly. That affection she had cultivated for her sister had grown its roots deep inside of her, and she found it impossible to let it go. Though she could bury it, she could not deny its existence. It was still there.

She finished the rest of her coffee as the sun began to rise over the horizon. As she gazed at the sight, her thoughts started to drift to Princess Celestia. Did she go through the same thing when she banished her sister? It startled Rarity to think that the emotions she felt could be shared by someone so prestigious and noble. This, however, was not the same as banishment. No matter how hurtful the separation, it was not the same as losing a loved one; though a thousand years was a considerable amount of time – their detachment was still only temporary, unlike the void that now stood between her and Sweetie Belle.

Still, she could not help feel that the dear Princess might suffer in another way. It must have been difficult living year after year – teaching students and growing close to them – only to watch them grow old and eventually pass. Did she let it affect her? Did she allow herself to get attached to the first few and then gradually become aloof in her affections – knowing the eventuality would soon have them parted? Rarity liked to think that Celestia cared deeply for each of her subjects, but did she care for them in the same way as the first? Does one's love for another ever truly die?

As she pondered the questions over, Rarity heard a knock at the door. "Who could that be?" she wondered aloud.

She casually strolled to the door, passing the inauspicious dress, and peered through the peep-hole. Through a refracted and distorted lens, she could make out familiar visage of the mail-pony. She pressed down on the latch above the handle and opened the door. "Good morning, Ditzy" Rarity greeted her.

"Good morning," the gray pony returned politely. "Express delivery," she said, extending a letter.

"Express?" Rarity asked – her interest piqued.

"Yes ma'am," she affirmed as Rarity took the letter from her hoof.

"That's odd..." she said, tearing the envelope open. Inside was a cream-colored piece of paper that was marked with a stamp from the telegraph office. She broke the seal over its folded edges and began to read the letter to herself.

_"Dear Rarity,_

_Traveling back from Canterlot today -(STOP)- Heard about death -(STOP)- Will come by later -(STOP)- Yours sincerely, Spike"_

Rarity found the abrupt nature of the telegram suited to its message. She folded it along its creases and placed it back into its envelope. As she was turning to go inside, she heard a cough behind her. It was a low grunting noise that caught her attention immediately. "Oh yes, how silly of me," she said wheeling around. "Here you are." She flipped a bit, which landed directly in Ditzy's hoof

"Thank you very much!" she smiled. "Have a wonderful day!" And with that, the mail-pony departed.

She turned back inside her home a second time and closed the door behind her. She reflected on Spike's letter. She had known that he had been called to Canterlot by the Princess several weeks before – which explained his unusual absence at Sweetie's funeral – but for what reason, she did not know. It must have been important business, although not entirely unexpected. All business in Canterlot was important – this she knew from her own personal experiences. Still, it was good of him stop by. His presence would not be unwelcome. She had not seen anybody in a while, and the boutique was starting to get lonely. It would be nice to talk with someone again.

As she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she noticed the sun was now significantly higher than it had been before. All the fog that been laid so oppressively over the ground gradually began to dissipate –leaving behind the morning dew which glimmered and shone on the summer grass. She could hear a symphony crickets now too that had evaded her perceptions. They added a soothing melody as the rays of light basked against the dark clouds that suddenly became animated with bright hues of red and orange, with lavender edging along the horizon. Perhaps today was not going to be as dreary as she had first expected.

She sat at the table and watched as a few birds flew by outside her window. Mornings like these were exceedingly rare. Only once in a while did you get such an exact alignment of all the elements to create such a splendor. In the midst of this illumination, however, she could not feel help but feel a shadow creep over her heart. It was the faint remnant of memory from a past that she had almost forgotten, but it struck her now more poignantly than it had done before.

It became clearer as she thought about it. It had been another summer morning, just like this one, a year or two ago. She and Sweetie had been out hiking on a wooded mountain trail to the north of the city on the southern slope of Monarch's Mountain.

"Ugh, I am worn out," Rarity said tossing her back-pack down. "Sweetie, let's lest rest here a moment."

"No!" she protested. "We're almost there! Just a little farther."

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Rarity asked, strapping her gear back on.

"Absolutely! Now come on!"

"Alright..."she said, pressing on.

It was a difficult climb – especially for Rarity. She was not accustomed to doing such strenuous exertion. She struggled for air as she forced her way up the path, finding it more difficult to breathe with each turn and climb. She soon found herself lagging behind.

"Sweetie!" Rarity pleaded. "Please, wait!"

"No! It's here!" Sweetie exclaimed from behind a tree near the top of what looked like a flat basin. "Quick! Hurry! You'll miss it!"

"Miss what?"

She trudged onwards, her knees buckling underneath her as she reached the summit of where her sister lay prone on the ground, throwing off her back-pack with a mighty thud as she panted. "Now what was it you..."

Rarity became stoically composed as she witnessed what it was that Sweetie Belle wanted her to see. In the distance, the sun rose radiantly behind the obscurity of the clouds that blanketed the morning skies. Bright beams of twinkling light shone through the few places where the clouds had dissipated and formed a wonderful rainbow over the hills on either side of the chasm, where a forest, as old as the world itself, stood in majestic triumph and extended down to the bank of the river, which had carved its way through the valley below. She stood there, gazing silently, unable to breathe a single word.

"See?" Sweetie Belle said mildly as she leaned against the trunk of a wide oak-tree.

"It's beautiful..." was all Rarity was able to whisper as she plopped down beside her.

"I told ya' you wouldn't want to miss it," she yawned as she leaned her head on Rarity's shoulder and shut her eyes. They had both been up since three that morning, and so they were both thoroughly exhausted. Rarity wrapped her arms around her little sister and held her close as she watched the sunrise. After a couple of moments of silence, she heard her sister murmur. "Hey, Rarity."

"Yeah?"

"Will we always be this close?"

"Yes," she answered, gently stroking her mane, "Always."

"Will you always be there for me?"

"Yes, I'll always be there for you."

"Hey, Rarity."

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She held her sibling in her arms and felt a tear run down her cheek as she kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, too."

There, underneath the shade of the oak-tree, they had both fallen into a deep slumber in the embrace of one another – perfectly at peace with each other and the world around them. Though the age of time had slowly snared its dark hand over that memory, it could not tarnish the affection which shone so eminently from its remembrance.

Rarity could feel another tear roll down her cheek as she ascended the stairs. How quickly those days seemed to have come and gone. Just a blink, a flash – and they were gone, yet it still lingered on in her heart. If only she could go back – how much more often and earnestly she would have heeded her sister's pleads for her to go outside and play with her, or attention she would have offered to those things which considered trivial at the time. It all went by so fast.

At the top of the stairs, she rounded the corner, and came upon a familiar sight. Sitting in the guest room, or "den" as she so often liked to call it, was her beloved harpsichord. When she had bought the piano-like instrument several years earlier, she felt a moment of satisfaction. The success of the business she had run out of her home had at length allowed her to purchase the fine piece of musical engineering. She adored its melodic – if not somewhat mellow – tones. To her, the ornately decorated mechanism seemed to exude the very nature of elegance and refinement.

She took to learning it with great fervor. Though, at first she found it quaint playing something that seemed outdated, she soon came to appreciate its versatility and resonance. After a few months of practice, she had become a virtual virtuoso. She enjoyed playing it in the solitudes of the evening when she had nothing better to do or whenever she had some free-time from making dresses (which were exceptionally rare).

It just so happened, though, on one such occasion, that she found herself doing just that. She had finished her fashion line earlier that day and was not expecting any customers, so she had momentarily retired to the den to practice. She started with the scales – one of many exercises found in J.S. Buck's "For a Well-Tempered Harpsichord"– and soon had progressed to an entire fugue. She found herself so engaged in playing, that she did not notice the door open.

When she finished some minutes later, she was greeted by an unexpected applause. "Bravo! Bravo! Encore!"

"Sweetie Belle! How long have you been standing there!?"

"About five minutes."

"Why didn't you make yourself known?"

"I didn't want to interrupt you. You were doing so well!"

"Well, thank you. But next time, please have the courtesy to knock when you come in. You nearly scared me to death."

"Sorry, Sis."

"It's alright," she said as she closed the book.

"Hey, you mind if I give it a try?"

"Uh." She didn't like thought of anyone being around her prized possession– especially her sister. While well-built, it was also fine-tuned, and she cringed at the thought of some indelicate hoofs touching its delicately set keys. "Maybe some other time. The day's not over and I still have other work to do."

"Oh, alright then. But you promise to let me try, right?"

"Yes, I promise."

It was a promise still waiting to be fulfilled. She sighed as she brushed by the door and made her way down the hall.

It was time to get ready. She couldn't spend all day going down memory lane, after all. Her mane was still in a mess, and she was expecting company later that day. "I know what I need," she said to herself as she trotted into her room, "A nice relaxing bubble bath." She grabbed some candles off the shelves inside her closet as well as a few sticks of incense, and carried them with her into the bathroom.

She squeezed the plug in its place and turned on the water while she situated the candles in their respective holders. In a small-ash tray on the counter, she delicately arranged the incense to form a crux at the center as she lit and quickly blew them out again. The room quickly filled with the thick scent of vanilla – her favorite fragrance –while she poured the soap into the tub. After a brief moment, she turned off the water and slowly sank her way into a now voluminous mass of bubbles that seemed to carry all her troubles away.

"That's more like it," she moaned as stretched her muscles in the rather large tub. After shampooing her hair and soaking for a good thirty minutes, however, there was a knock on the door. "Who could that be?" she asked aloud. She looked up at the clock on the wall which showed it was a quarter until eleven. "Ah, that must be Spike." She emerged from the tub and opened the window and called down below. "Go on inside darling! I'm just taking a bath! Make yourself at home and I'll be right down!"

She didn't receive a reply, merely the cling of the main-entrance bell and the dull thud of the door shutting behind it. "He's a bit early," she noted as she wrapped the towel around herself, proceeding to comb her mane and dry it. While she busied herself, she could hear what sounded like pacing downstairs in the kitchen. "A little impatient, aren't we, Spike? Okay, fine, I'll hurry." She quickly tidied herself up and put on what she considered the bare minimum in terms of makeup. "Not my best face – but it'll have to do." She put on some last-minute touches and was out the door.

She passed the den and descended the stairs once more. "Was your stay in Canterlot-" she was cut off mid-sentence as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. For a fraction of second, everything in the world suddenly seemed to cave in around her, and she wondered if she was in right mind. When a brief moment had passed and she realized that she was not hallucinating or experiencing a delusion, she stuttered out a response. "S-sweetie Belle!"

There, sitting at the table, was her sister. It took her a moment to register, but as she looked her over, she noticed that she appeared exactly like she had known her.

"Y-you're n-not r-real!"

Her sister made no response. She merely flashed a demur smile at the table where she was seated – quietly biding there on the seat as Rarity gazed at her.

"What are you doing here?"

Again, Sweetie offered no response. Instead, she got off her seat and neared her sister who stood defensively in the doorway; approaching her boldly – as if to confirm her existence. For a moment, Rarity hesitated, unsure of what to do. This couldn't be real. It didn't make any sense at all, but how could she deny what her own eyes saw? Or did her senses betray her into seeing her? Was it all just a delusion that her mind had concocted? While she pondered these questions, a delicate hoof gently laid itself on hers, and all her rational senses went silent as she felt its tender presence.

Rarity bent down, and looked at her sister's face. She could see, as she gazed into her pallid complexion, a joy that gleamed so brightly in those mild green eyes of hers. They still radiated with the exuberance of youthful passion, which veiled the unspoken longing of affection which burnt so fiercely in those limitless depths. At length, she let her emotion overcome her, and clasped her sister in a firm embrace – tears running down her cheeks as once more she fondly cradled Sweetie in her arms. "I've missed you so much..." she choked out between sobs.

There the two of them stood in complete solidarity as they held each other, as they once had. After a few moments of coddling, Rarity took her sister by the shoulder once more and whispered in her ear. "I have a gift. Stay here, and I'll go and get it." Sweetie nodded, and Rarity traveled out of the kitchen to the entrance where the dress hung. She picked it up by the hanger and quickly sped back – proudly holding it in front of her. "Here, it's a dress. I made it just for you. Happy Birthday, Sweetie Belle."

Her sister's eyes ignited with joy as she quickly raced to the dress and undid the bow wrapped around it. She jumped as she basked in the splendor of Rarity's wonderful creation – but paused to caress it, as if she did not feel entitled to it. "Go on," her sister assured her. "Try it on." Sweetie made a giddy expression and eagerly began to undo the lace to put it on. When she had done so, she stood proudly in front of her sister. "There," Rarity said adjusting one of the bows, "Don't you look just darling?"

Sweetie giggled and skipped out of the kitchen – down the hall. "Sweetie Belle, where are you going?" There was no reply – just the tread of her steps as she raced up the steps to the second story. Rarity followed her. "What are you doing up there?" She reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to see her sister sitting at the harpsichord in the den. Rarity looked at her sister and realized what she wanted. "Yes..." she said at last, "we shall."

Rarity took her place behind her, and gently wrapped her hoofs around her wrists. "Ready?" Sweetie Belle nodded. Rarity guided her sister to the keys and pressed them down. She took it slowly at first – something simple. It started as a practice of the scales until it took the form of a soft, somber melody which Rarity had improvised on the spot. This she did several times, until Sweetie became aware of the pattern and didn't need her sister's assistance. "Yes, that's right. You've got it." Rarity smiled. "You've got it..."

They played together for several hours – until the soft knock interrupted them. Rarity turned to see Spike, standing in the doorway of the den. "Oh," she said startled, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," came his reply. "The door downstairs was open. I came to see if everything was alright."

"Yes," she said, "Everything's fine. I was just playing with-" When she turned back around, nobody was there. Not a trace of any being ever having been there – just an empty bench, on which lay a discarded dress.


End file.
